


The Njǫrvafjarðar Saga

by Hrafnsvaengr



Category: Original Work
Genre: 10th Century, But no seriously, F/F, F/M, Historical, Historical Adventure/Romance, How many other ways can I say "This is original"?, I'll add useful tags later...maybe, It's literally just original, Long story short:, M/M, Not to be confused with the show, Scandinavia and Celtlands, Shieldmaidens, Vikings, and shieldmaidens, because it's not even remotely related, is apparently a tag I can use, other than involving norsemen, set in:, which is delightful
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-16 05:03:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13047042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hrafnsvaengr/pseuds/Hrafnsvaengr
Summary: After a raid on the Saxon lands goes awry, the Járl's son finds himself with little to show for it but a new thrall. Although, perhaps with some time, some hardship, and some adventure along the way, the raid could come to be a beginning of a great story, passed down for generations by the great poets. Perhaps.





	The Njǫrvafjarðar Saga

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s Foreword:
> 
> Throughout this text, there are numerous references between places and people both fictional and historical, and the author makes no effort to distinguish between the two here. For the purposes of this story, all are as real as any other. However, a general rule of thumb that may be applied, should the reader wish to sort between the two, sifting out my chaff from the wheat of historical truth, is this: If the place or character is mentioned in the present time within the story, it is fictional. If the place or character is mentioned within the distant past, it is historical.
> 
> In order to better evoke the time and place in which this story takes place, I have left largely unaltered the cultures and customs of the people within it. The Víkings as you see them on the page here are not wholly dissimilar from the Víkings who did raid and pillage throughout Northern Europe in the centuries before A.D. 1000. That being said, this is and will always remain simply a story, not a historical document, and so if and when it is required by the story, the customs have been changed or ignored to suit the strictures of the story which I wish to tell. Should you wish to find a true-to-life telling of víkings and their deeds, the Norse sagas provide such a telling in a far greater breadth and with a far surpassing skill than does this peculiar little story.
> 
> Throughout the text I have used two main devices for bringing the world of the Gaels and the Víkings to life. Scattered throughout the book are scraps of the languages of these people, their words, their names, etc. The reader should, through context, be able to understand the intent if not the direct meaning of the vast majority of these without aid. That being said, such foreign words and phrases cannot go unremarked upon if they occur in number, and so I have included a glossary with pronunciation guide at the end of each chapter.
> 
> The second device used is the use of kennings. Kennings were a form of metaphor used by the Norse in their own literature. They usually take the form of two nouns placed together which refer to some other noun via a cultural association. They may take the form of two nouns in apposition, such as “raven-feeder” or in a possessive phrase like “Óðin’s doves”, meaning “sword” and “ravens” respectively. These kennings may reference well known Víking myths, such as “Ymir’s skull” for “sky” referencing the giant Ymir, whose skull, the Víkings believed, was made into the dome of the sky, and his brains the clouds. Or they may simply be descriptive, such as “wave’s steed” for “ship”. A glossary of those used is likewise provided at the end of each chapter.
> 
> Through these two devices, the scraps of real language and the use of kennings, I am hoping to bring this far-off and often misunderstood time and place into a more vivid focus for the reader.
> 
> In addition, I have also retained many of the traditional spellings that may be somewhat unfamiliar to the reader, in no small part because of two letters which were used by the Norse (as well as English, in earlier forms) and not retained in languages other than modern Icelandic and Faroese. These two letters, thorn and eth, represent the th-sounds found in the words “three” and “this” respectively (represented by “th” and “dh” in the pronunciations at the back of the text in the glossary).
> 
> The letter thorn is a descendent of a Norse rune and takes the shape Þ in the capital and þ in the lowercase. The letter eth, is simply a variant of the letter d, and takes the shape Ð in capital and ð in lowercase. Many of the words which may seem unfamiliar to you, like fjǫrðr, Þórr, Óðinn, etc. are revealed to be well known when you replace, as many English texts do, the thorn with a “th” and the eth with a “d”, giving us fjǫrdr, Thórr, and Ódinn. The extra consonants at the ends of these words, usually an r or n, were a grammatical feature of Norse, and are also frequently left out in English, as are the various accented vowels used by the Norse. All these small changes result in the very familiar forms of fjord, Thor, and Odin.
> 
> I have retained these original spellings in order that the reader may come to be more fully immersed in this world. If you wish, you can happily ignore them, simply replacing thorn with “th” and eth with “d” in your mind; however, I do encourage you to try to take these words, made newly foreign by their original spelling and unique letters as an entrypoint into this wonderful, exciting world. The world of the Víkings.

**Part I: The Raid**

* * *

 

**Chapter I: Land**

 

The sea slithered by the sides of Arnór’s boat like grass along the silken flanks of a snake. His wave’s steed was sure and strong; his sword, the raven-feeder, was sharp and straight. Many of his countrymen had journeyed west across the sea to the lands of the setting sun. Many--but not him. He had proven his worth in the East, feeding the crows in Kurland; he had earnt his name in the forests of that wild country. Arnórr Þorsteinsson hinn sterki af Njǫrvafirði. Arnórr the strong, son of Þorsteinn. And strong he was. He knew it was so; there was little point denying that truth. Largest of his kin, Arnórr was known both for his father, who had founded their settlement in Njǫrvafirði in the far north of Hálogaland, as well as his stature. Tall, a head above most men, and strong in a way that many tall men aren't, gangling the way they do. Not Arnórr.

“Release the ravens,” he ordered. Magni, the corpse-eaters' keeper, released the two birds from their cage. They rose into the air on a flurry of black feathers and raucous cries. If the two birds returned, they would wait another day at sea; if not, well, if not, that's when life would suddenly become more interesting.

These Saxons were told to have a great wealth of gold. They stored it in temples worshipping a murdered god. Nonsense. It wouldn't be long now, surely, before the familiar blood-reek filled the air and he heard the sounds of the braying of their holymen. Saxons; no wonder so many of the slaves of the southern fjords spoke in that tongue if they left priests to guard their treasures and their warriors fought the peasants. Nonsense. Not long now.

Arnórr looked to Magni. It had been a long time since they'd released Óðin's doves. Like the eyes of the Alfather, the ravens would be their eyes. And given how long they'd been gone —

“Land!” came the call of Úlf over the gently bobbing boats, “Land, in the mist!”

It was only a short moment before similar cries came, echoing those of Úlf. Úlfr Haraldsson hinn glǫggr, the sharp-eyed, was one of Arnór's longest friends and companions. A small, wiry man with hair the colour of road dust and quick darting eyes, Úlfr was quick of sight and quicker of wit. Reliable, as far as it went, but not always in the way you might expect. He'd be more like to climb up a tree to shoot your foes unseen with his bow than he would to stand back-to-back, stalwart in the thick of things. In one thing, however, Úlfr was not a reliable man, and that one thing was women. It was often said that Úlfr must worship Jǫrmungand for how often he brought his “great serpent” out to wreak havoc.

The mist was thick on the coast, hanging over black rocks and green scrubby grasses like a heavy coat of wool. The skin prickled up and down Arnór's forearms and he gripped the hilt of his sword tightly. In only a few short hours, he and his men and some of the women of Njǫrvafjǫrð would be bathed in the red glory of battle and crowned with the honour of the fight. The gold and thralls they'd bring back? A happy side-effect to be sure. His blond hair stood on end on the back of his neck; not long now.

The boats scraped against the dark gravel of the beach. Black rocky cliffs reached up to either side of them, but there was a clear path picked through the rocks and scrub leading to the top. Good. A path meant someone to go up and down it, and someone to go up and down it, now that meant someone with something worth having. Arnórr smiled behind his beard and roared to his kinsmen “Quick now! Up the cliffs! If these Saxons know what's good for them they'll already have the gold laid out on the tops of them!” His cry was greeted by approving shouts and the steady crunching of heavy feet on the rocky ground.

When the raiding party reached the tops of the cliffs, they looked down. The sea below was grown thick with mist, the billowing waves of woolen spray reaching up to join with the heavy clouds above. Before long, the heavens would open. Perhaps Þórr would join his mighty hammerblows to the sound of steel on steel and the cries of these Saxons. Wouldn't that be a tale for the skálds? Arnórr the strong, slayer of Saxons, beloved of Þór. Yes, that would be the thing. There was just one problem: To find the bloody Saxons.

The path was faint; little more than a thinning piece of turf or a clod of the dark soil out of place. It made for slow going. When you know what sort of direction your quarry is like to be in, having little enough path is no great hindrance. But when your quarry ranges far in unknown directions in a strange land? That was when a pathseeker proved their worth. Magni, keeper of the sky watchers, was such a pathseeker.

“Here. They're wearing leather shoes. Two, maybe three. They can't have gone far, they've no horse nor cart.” The dark eyes looked up from where he sat on his haunches. “Before long we'll find them. Don't worry, Arnórr.” He smiled a toothy grin.

And sure enough, after another long stretch of heather and scrub, Úlfr drew them to a halt with a raised fist. Arnórr and Magni drew along beside, expectantly. They all squatted there is silence for a long moment before Arnórr opened his mouth to speak, “What is–”

Úlfr shushed him sharply, “If you'd just hold your tongue for a minute, you'd hear it, you great oaf.”

As Arnórr was opening his mouth to reply, he heard it, a wide smile spreading across his face. Lowing. There were cattle ahead. And cattle meant people. Civilisation. Or what shitstained hovel passed for civilisation in this godsforsaken land. “Everyone get ready. Braid your hair tight and get ready your blades. We've Saxons to find.”

*  *  *

“Give me a hand here, my boy. You know I ain't so strong as once I was.” Fearghas' father groaned, holding out a thick hand to be helped standing. Grey ash blew in Aonghas' hair now, no longer the bright flames that burnt in Fearghas' own.

They both grunted as Fearghas helped his father to his feet. It wouldn't be long now, the seeress said, before Fearghas himself would be chief of their clan. His father's strength left him more and more by the day, it seemed, and with it, the weight on Fearghas' shoulders only grew.

“Thank you, my boy. Now that I'm up, it doesn't seem near so far from the ground as it felt getting up off it.” Aonghas grinned; that much, at least, about the aging chieftain, had not faded with age. He still smiled like a boy of no more than fifteen summers.

They walked together into the long low hall. Made of wood and sod, and dug into the hill itself, the clan hall of Clan MacCoinneach was warm in spite of the rising storm. It would be a cold night, but at least it was warm and dry in here. And if nothing else, there was always whisky.

Deàrshul NicCoinneach, Fearghas' mother, was inside, pulling dinner out of the fire. Roast rabbits and nettle pie, if his nose wasn't mistaken. It had been a long while since they could afford to give one of the cattle to the slaughter. Too many calves born weak, and the winter behind them especially harsh, there were few enough of the beasts as it was. No, for now they would have to fish and catch wild, and forage what they could. There was only so much nettle pie a man could eat though before he went mad. Perhaps mad enough to start liking the stuff.

“Aonghas, Fearghas, good. I always could count on you two to arrive when the food is coming out the fire.” She looked knowingly between the two men, eliciting a puckish grin from the older and the first faint flush of a red blush on the younger's cheeks.

“With cooking like yours, _mo rùn_ ,” Aonghas kissed his wife on her wind-roughened cheek, “It’d take more power than the whole court of the _daoine sìth_ to keep me from coming back to your doorstep at suppertime.”

Fearghas smiled at his parents as he took one of the small charred pies and picked off enough of the crust to get at the inside. Blackened on the outside by the fire, the dough was heavy, made of oats and formed into balls, about the size of a man’s fist, filled inside with onions, parsnips, and the earthy bitter leaves of the nettles which grew down the way where the stream burbled its way toward the sea.

“Fearghas! Where did your two sisters run off to? I thought you were with them?” his mother inquired, her red brow raised.

Fearghas shrugged, “Brianag was playing with her friends in the stream, and Fionnaghal was off tending to the sheep. They said they’d be back before long.” He had spoken briefly with his sisters before they ran off to do their own things; he wasn’t near so exciting to them, now that they were grown a bit. He used to be their big brother Fearghas, slayer of dragons and defeater of the _sasunnaich_ monsters who lived down south beyond the narrow sea which the black cliffs looked over. Now, he was simply Fearghas, the next chief of their clan. Before long, it would be up to their father, or if his father should go below the earth before then, up to Fearghas himself to find husbands for his sisters. For now though, Brianag was still little, and Fionnaghal was only beginning to come of her age now, and they could simply be his little sisters for the time being.

“Fearghas, go see where Brianag is. If Fionnaghal is off with the sheep, she’ll be gone a while, but I don’t want Brianag missing her dinner; she’s already thin as a board,” his mother instructed, heaving a sigh and shaking her head wearily.

Fearghas’ father kissed his wife again on the cheek, his heavy arm around her shoulders. “You worry too much, Deàrshul. Before long, the sun will come out, the cattle will recover from this damned cold, and we’ll have three fat happy children again.”

It was ridiculous, of course. Fearghas was old enough that by rights he should have got married some summers ago, and his two sisters weren’t far off themselves. He hadn’t been a child for some time, growing into a man taking after his mother more than his short broad father. He wasn’t tall, but nor was he short, and he had a lean look that seemed to match his mother’s thin but solid figure.

“They’ll hardly be fat if they stay looking like Fearghas though,” his father said, reaching a big hand down to nab another pie from where they sat cooling from the fire. “You take this, and no arguing, my boy.” His father tossed him the small pie, earning a sharp look from his mother.

“You know that that pie was for the _gruagach_ ,” she scolded him, "You know what happened last time we didn't give it a share."

“I know, I know. Look,” he held up his own pie soothingly, “It can have mine, Fearghas can have one extra, and none's the wiser.”

Fearghas smiled. Another affectionate kiss on his mother's cheek was the last thing he saw of his parents before leaving the small hall, ducking the smallest fraction under the lintel of the low door. Before he could get a bite of his two pies, he had to find Brianag.

*  *  *

“You said there'd be Saxons. Temples. You said there'd be _gold_ , Arnór.” Úlfr was livid. He’d always had a temper and now his hackles were well up.

“I said we would raid in the Westlands. Where are we? In the Westlands.” Arnórr crossed his arms over his broad chest, glaring straight back at Úlf. “You know as well as I do that none of us has been here before.”

“How are we supposed to win honour and bring back riches for our wives if all we’ve found in this...place,” he gestures around them at the rocks and sparse scrubby grasses, “Is mist and a single shrieking cowherd? " he demanded. The bloody grinning curve of his axe spattered quiet drops onto the turf, punctuating his words with a steady 'Tap...Tap...Tap...'

Arnórr shook his head, turning and walking on in the direction they’d been following the tracks. Úlfr would follow, he would calm down; he always did. They had better find something soon though, or there’d be hell to pay.

The cowherd they’d come across had been droving her cattle with a long stick. Without a single word, Úlfr had charged up to her, his keen-edged axe bared, his teeth shining in the faint daylight filtering through clouds that were sure to bring storms with them. She’d shrieked when she’d seen him, though she hadn’t had a chance to do so long. The scream died in her throat, turning into little more than a wet gurgle. Úlfr had put his foot on her face as he rocked the axe back and forth, pulling it out of her as though he were pulling it from a stubborn stump.

Arnórr’s sister walked ahead of them with Magni, following the tracks the cowherd had left behind her as she droved her charges over the heather. Eydís was a shieldmaiden, much to their father’s pride and chagrin. His mother on the other hand, would have been proud; she had died three days after giving birth to Arnór, a blood infection taking root in her and bringing the warrior down. His father, always a loyal man, had refused to remarry, and so Arnórr and Eydís were all there were to carry on his name.

Magni placed a hand on Eydís’ shoulder, more affectionately than Arnórr had expected. Perhaps his sister had found something in the wiry man that caught her eye. Úlfr had tried for many months to catch Eydís’ attention to no avail, eventually giving up after his persistence became a source of ridicule instead of simple amusement. To this day, Arnórr wasn’t entirely sure whether Eydís had ever actually noticed the man’s attention; if not, she was the only one who hadn’t.

Arnórr jogged up to the front of the group, hopping up onto a large rock that gave him a wider view of the surroundings. The grass and scrub extended for miles, breaking off abruptly at the sharp cliffs like a stone knife jutting into the sea. Far ahead though, behind a small rise, there was something that caught his eye. Rising into the iron-grey expanse of the sky, Ymir’s skull, high above, a single thin thread of bluish smoke, like a spun strand of cloud brought down to touch the earth below.

He jumped down off the rock, drawing everyone in with a raised hand, a finger to his lips to call for silence. A grin rose to his lips as he looked over the raiding party. “Up ahead. Smoke. We’re close now.”

*  *  *  

“Brianag!” Fearghas’ voice called out over the range the clan used for sheep. It was a landscape of hills and rocks and the ever-present cliff that bordered the sea. “It’s time to eat, Brianag!” It was like her, to be off playing with her friends when she should be at home with mother, keeping out of this damned rain. It had begun spitting just as Fearghas had left the hall, and now his hair was dripping down into his eyes.

From a short distance away, off in a small copse of trees where the children liked to catch rabbits and play hide and seek, Brianag’s voice came in reply, high and piping on the wet air. “Fearghas! Come quickly!” She didn’t sound distressed, but there was definitely a strained quality to her voice.

Fearghas ran, his feet slipping on the wet ground, drawing great splashing gouts of water when his stride landed him in a puddle. It wasn’t long before he had crossed the distance to the edge of the trees, and he called again, stopping at their margin. “Brianag! Where are you?”

Her voice, much closer now, came quickly in reply, “Over here! Beside the stream!” Was that… She was giggling.

He walked through the dark trunks under the new canopy toward the stream. It was only a minute or so from the edge, but it was like night beneath the feathery boughs of fresh growth. “Come on, Brianag. You know how _athair_ and _màthair_ are when you’re late.”

She was just behind a thick stand of trees now when he heard her call back, “I know, but... “ he heard a splash and a giggle, “Come on! You have to see this!”

He rounded the last bend and saw Brianag and two of her little friends, covered to the knees in mud, wet to the bone everywhere else. They had somehow built a small dam across the stream out of windfelled branches and limbs from the trees all around, cemented, by the looks of it, with thick goopy mud. The same mud that covered Brianag’s arms and legs in a dirty brown layer.

“See! We stopped the stream!” she exclaimed happily, throwing her little hands up in the air, a clod of mud flying off them as though it were born to flight. “Isn’t it neat?”

He tried putting on his stern older brother face, but couldn’t help but smile a little. It _was_ kind of neat, now that he thought about it. For three little girls to stop the stream, a spreading lake behind the little dam, was surely something to be impressed by. But now was not the time; he would already catch his mother’s scorn for not watching her closely enough and now she was absolutely filthy. “You know _màthair_ gave you the birch last time you were playing in the mud! Come on now, if you’re quick, maybe she won’t give you the birch a second time for being late for dinner.” He looked at her two friends, “And you two had best go home too. I know your parents won’t be happy with you this dirty. And out in a storm no less!”

The girls looked crestfallen, dropping their muddy hands to their sides, their backs slouching over. He sighed, then smiled at them, “It really is neat though. Maybe another time I’ll help you make another one. Bigger and stronger,” he winked at them before putting back on his sternest expression. “But for now, you’re all in enough trouble as it is. Go on! _Thalla gu dachaigh!_ ”

They ran, quick as their mudstained little legs would carry them, Fearghas tromping along behind at a walking pace. He would rather not be there when their mother saw the state of Brianag’s hair and clothes. She looked more mud than girl, and her mother was like as all to make her go to a bath before dinner if she didn’t watch her mouth. The corner of his lips turned up in a smile. His sister could talk her way into any fix as quickly as she could talk her way out.

*  *  *

The raiders stood in a half circle facing the small clot of sod-roofed houses below them between rises in the hills that marched like a condemned man to the cliff. Arnórr, Eydís, and Úlfr were standing ahead of the main body of the raiders, watching as a couple of the redheaded people below went back into their hovel of a home.

Úlfr was nearly shaking with fury. “There’s nothing to be had here! All we should do is go down and clean as many of them off the face of the land as possible. They’re good for feeding my axe if nothing else.”

Arnórr looked sternly at his friend, “No. We can take them as thralls.”

“Thralls?” Úlfr scoffed, “They don’t even speak a language! They’re little more than animals!”

“Even animals have their uses, Úlfr,” replied Arnórr.

“There is no honour to be had here,” said Eydís, never looking away from the village. “We should leave them in peace. If they won’t make thralls and they’ve nothing to raid, we should leave. We won’t earn a seat in Valhalla--”

Úlfr laughed a bitter laugh. “Valhalla?” he spat the word, “We’ll never get into the great meadhall cowering from these sheep.”

“Enough. We should take them as thralls or leave them be. There’s nothing to be gained, either in honour or gold, in killing them.”

“Shit on your honour!” cried Úlfr, his voice rising further in his anger. “How much honour is there in coming to the wrong land? How much honour is there in returning with little more than starving savages to show? I shit on your honour, Þorsteinsson,” he looked to Eydís, a sneer crawling onto his features, “And I shit on your mercy as well, Þorsteinsdóttir.”

“Calm yourself, Úlfr. You know that this is our father’s raid, and I am his son.”

“Then shit on your father too! You go on and on about honour,” the word dripped from his tongue with a venom, “And then you turn your backs when these...these...worms dishonour you by their very existence. If there are a people less worthy of life, show me them now.”

“Enough!” Arnórr loomed over his friend, his face growing dark with a growing rage. “You slander my family and you seek to rule over me? No. We leave now. I’ll not--”

“I call a þing!” Úlfr turned to the half circle of warriors, all of whom looked gravely from Úlf to Arnór. “I call a þing to decide. You will not take this from me, Þorsteinsson. ”

And so, the raiders gathered together to have their say. None of them spoke. None of them needed to. Everyone knew what Arnór and Úlf wanted to do and everyone knew why. All there was to be done was the voting of it.

They went, raising their armrings for the two men, each of the raiders saying his name as he did. There were no secrets in the þing; each man and woman were judged by their actions in the þing as surely as they were by the gods.

Úlfr snarled at Arnór wickedly. He had won. By only two raised arms, he had won.

With only the briefest of looks to the other raiders, Úlf drew his bloodsmeared axe up above his head and threw his head to the sky, shouting for the world to hear, “Óðinn á yðr alla! Óðinn á yðr alla!”

Thunder clapped, a great rolling roiling reverberating crack that broke open the sky. The first drops of rain were just hitting Arnór when Úlfr began to run towards the houses. The raid had truly begun.

**Author's Note:**

> Glossary of Foreign Words, Names, & Phrases:
> 
> Norse:  
> Alfǫðr — ALL-fo-dhur — Alfather, Óðin  
> Arnórr — AR-nor — Eagle-of-Thór  
> Eydís — AY-dees — Good fortune-goddess  
> Magni — MAHG-nee — Strong  
> Njǫrvafjǫrðr — NYOR-va-fyor-dhur — Narrow-ford  
> Óðinn á yðr alla — O-dhin AH OO-dhur ALL-a — Odin owns ye all  
> skáld — SCALD — poet, bard, storyteller  
> þing — THING — council, assembly, group decision  
> Þorsteinsson — THOR-stains-son — Thor-stone’s-son  
> Þorsteinsdóttir — THOR-stains-doh-teer — Thor-stone’s-daughter  
> Úlfr — OOLF-ur — Wolf
> 
>  
> 
> Gaelic:  
> Aonghas — UHN-ghus — One-strength  
> athair — AH-hurr — father  
> Brianag — BREE-un-uck — Strength  
> daoine sìth — DUNN-ya SHE — fairies, spirit folk  
> Deàrshul — JER-hool — Tearful-eye  
> Fearghas — FUR-ghus — Vigorous-man  
> Fionnaghal — FEE-uh-nuh-ghul — Fair-shoulders  
> gruagach — GROO-uh-guhkh — brownie, house spirit  
> màthair — MA-hurr — mother  
> mo rùn — moe RUNE — my dear  
> sasunnaich — SAH-sun-ekh — Saxons  
> Thalla gu dachaidh! — HA-luh goo duh-KHEE — Go home!
> 
>  
> 
> Glossary of Kennings:
> 
> Alfather — Óðin  
> corpse-eater — raven  
> Óðin’s dove — raven  
> raven-feeder — sword  
> sky-watcher — raven  
> wave’s steed — ship  
> Ymir’s skull — sky


End file.
